


unbearable

by The_Eclectic_Bookworm



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-08 19:01:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17391899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Eclectic_Bookworm/pseuds/The_Eclectic_Bookworm
Summary: “I called Dottie to check in,” Collins said. “We’d had a date scheduled for the pictures, but then Miss Fisher got that party invitation out of the blue, and I thought, well, it might be nice to surprise Dottie with a long-distance telephone call anyway. But Miss Fisher picked up, and hearing it was me seemed to worry her, and she wanted to know why I was calling and then if it was something to do with you, and I said, no, don’t worry, the Inspector’s fine, nobody’s dead—”(a role reversal inspired byblood at the wheel, wherein one lady detective mishears a message instead.)





	unbearable

**Author's Note:**

> this fic came about when i was thinking about _blood at the wheel_ and was like...ok, but how would that have played out if it was phryne who had believed jack was dead? how would she have handled that?
> 
> as such, this is set in early s2, right where _blood at the wheel_ would have been in canon.

It felt almost as though Miss Fisher had taken the sunshine with her. She had departed from Melbourne for a soiree at some wealthy friend’s country estate, cheerfully tossing a “don’t solve too many murders while I’m gone!” over her shoulder as she did so, and not an hour later, it had begun to rain. They were well into the third day of gloomy, gray weather, and Jack was doing his best to pretend that it was the cloudy skies that had him feeling frustrated and restless.

It wasn’t, though. Clearly not. Though the more inventive criminals weren’t out and about in the rainy weather, there was no shortage of telephone calls about car accidents and attempted muggings and mediocre things like that. Jack had never been frustrated by police work, and he had never felt restless doing paperwork in his office. He’d stayed where he was because he appreciated every part of his job, even the more procedural aspects. Something like a little bit of rain wouldn’t have him feeling _lonely._

But feeling maudlin due to rain was at least slightly excusable. Feeling maudlin because a woman he had no clear connection to was out of town for a mere two weeks was bloody ridiculous. Even _if_ that woman was Miss Fisher, who seemed to bring life and light wherever she went, and whose absence seemed pervasive. His office felt oddly incomplete without her barging in on some ridiculous—

“ _Constable Collins!”_ shouted a near-hysterical voice, and Jack’s office door slammed open, revealing none other than Phryne Fisher.

Jack stared. He had seen Miss Fisher in various states of disarray before, but in comparison to a half-unbuttoned shirt or a flash of stocking, this was total chaos. Clutching her handbag, Miss Fisher was wearing mismatched high heels, one stocking, and a slip, her usual dressing gown thrown haphazardly over the whole mess. Not only that, but she was soaking wet from head to toe, as though she had run all the way from the train station without stopping.

“Miss Fisher,” said Jack stupidly. “Aren’t you due back next week?”

Miss Fisher stared at him, mouth half-open, and collapsed against the doorframe. She was shaking.

“Phryne,” said Jack. Worry twisted his chest as he crossed the room to her, gently gripping her shoulder. He hesitated, glancing into the front office; though Collins was staring at them with his mouth half-open, no one else seemed to have noticed Miss Fisher. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to give them some privacy, and so he tugged Miss Fisher into the office, shutting the door. “What on earth is the matter?”

Miss Fisher jerked her shoulder away from his hand as if burned. She raised shaking hands to her hair, patting it down. “I am going to have _words_ with Constable Collins,” she said, in a strange, dangerous tone of voice. She swayed on her feet.

“Well, I’m sure you have reason to,” said Jack carefully. “Might you sit down before you do so?”

“ _No,_ ” said Miss Fisher.

Jack didn’t really feel like trying to explain to an entire precinct why an ill-dressed, soaking wet Miss Fisher was angry at Constable Collins, particularly when he wasn’t quite sure himself. “At least dry off a bit,” he suggested, and pulled out his desk chair, removing his overcoat from where he’d draped it over the back of the chair.

Just as he was crossing the room again to tuck the overcoat around Miss Fisher, Dot burst in, equally drenched but a bit more well-dressed. “Oh, Inspector!” she gasped, and burst into tears; Collins, who seemed to have followed her, pulled Dot hastily and awkwardly into his arms.

“Dot, it’s fine,” said Miss Fisher a bit thinly, shrugging off Jack’s hands. “Hugh, may I speak with you in private?”

“Miss Fisher, you’re soaking wet,” said Jack quietly, reaching out again with the overcoat. “I don’t think—”

“I’ve taken care of myself quite well before you came along, Jack, I _don’t_ think I need your input at this juncture,” snapped Miss Fisher, swatting his hands away. Jack, stunned by the force of her anger (and _quite_ unsure of its cause), backed off, watching her with worry. “Hugh, I should like to _speak_ with you in _private.”_

Collins glanced nervously up at Jack.

“Go on, then,” said Jack. At least _someone_ might know what was going on.

Collins let go of Dot, squeezing her hands, and headed out of Jack’s office. Miss Fisher followed, still looking more than ready to kill something.

Dot was crying very hard. Jack shut the door, still _completely_ lost. “I’m so sorry!” she wailed. “She got the phone call and she just took off! I was helping with breakfast or I might have missed her, she ran so fast I only barely managed to catch the same train as her—”

“Ran?” Jack repeated.

“I don’t know what’s wrong!” sobbed Dot. “She was in a _state_ all the way to Melbourne, wouldn’t even talk to me, just _sat_ there staring out the window, and then when we got to the station she just started running again because she said a taxi couldn’t possibly come soon enough to get her to City South—”

“And I’m assuming Bert and Cec crossed town to drive you here?”

Dot sniffled, pulling out a handkerchief to dab at her face. “Our hosts must have called Wardlow and let Mr. B know Miss Fisher had run off,” she said shakily. “I don’t know _what_ she heard, Inspector, but if it’s anything to do with you—”

There was a knock on the door. Jack opened it. Collins was standing there, ashen. “I, um, there was—the phone lines have been bad,” he said. “Because of the rain. Miss Fisher misheard—”

“ _Hugh,_ I will thank you _not_ to bother Inspector Robinson with something that is most certainly not police business,” said Miss Fisher sharply from behind him. “Dot, come along.”

“Miss, what—” Dot began, still sniffling.

“ _Dot,_ come _along,_ ” said Miss Fisher again. She sounded near tears herself.

“Miss Fisher, if there’s anything—” Jack began.

“Thank you, Inspector, but your services aren’t required,” said Miss Fisher. “If I can just—”

Jack stepped deftly around Collins. Without a word, he tucked the overcoat determinedly around Miss Fisher, who stared up at him with wide eyes. “You’ll catch your chill,” he said gruffly, “and being obstinate about it won’t help anyone. Melbourne is better for having you in it, Miss Fisher.”

In the moment before she hurriedly turned away, Jack was quite certain he saw Miss Fisher’s face crumple. He felt Dot push gently past him, watched as she tucked her arm gently around Miss Fisher’s waist, and couldn’t look away as Dot carefully led Miss Fisher out of the precinct. Miss Fisher looked back, once, at the door, and it was directly at him; it was as though she was drinking the sight of him in.

“Collins,” said Jack. “What _was_ that?”

To his surprise, Collins looked steadily up at him and said, “Sir, you know I hate to keep things from you, but Miss Fisher informed me of my mistake in confidence. I don’t think she’d be happy if she knew I betrayed that confidence.”

“If it’s official police business,” Jack began, a warning in his voice.

“But it isn’t, sir,” said Collins. “I can assure you of that.”

* * *

There was a horribly artistic murder the next day, the sort that usually had Miss Fisher popping up out of nowhere and cheerfully pointing out clues that Jack would have found _eventually._ He was already pre-irritated when he saw the sigils and symbols carved into the table around the victim’s body; this was the sort of thing that attracted Miss Fisher like a moth to a flame. But she didn’t turn up for the duration of the entire crime scene inspection, which struck him as more than odd.

Collins didn’t seem at all surprised. Jack noted this, and kept it under wraps until they were heading out with the limited evidence they’d discovered. Halfway to the car, he stopped, and waited for Collins to turn.

Collins did. “Sir?”

“Seeing as Miss Fisher did not turn up at this crime scene,” said Jack, “and seeing as her lateness has likely impeded our investigation, the information you’re withholding has now become police business.”

“But sir, Miss Fisher isn’t a member of the police force—”

Jack fixed Collins with a look. “Are you saying Miss Fisher hasn’t been of help to us in these past investigations?” he said. If he wasn’t so determined to find out what the hell had upset Phryne so much, he might have felt a bit guilty about winding Collins up.

“N-no! No, sir, I just—”

“Are you saying we don’t value her contributions to case work?”

“No, um, I mean, yes? I mean, sometimes you get a bit angry when—”

“Collins,” said Jack. “I believe I’ve made myself quite clear. Why might Miss Fisher have avoided this crime scene?”

Collins wavered, looking genuinely worried. “I don’t know how she’ll feel about—” he began.

“I ask with Miss Fisher’s best interests in mind,” said Jack, his voice softening almost involuntarily. “I can assure you, Collins, I won’t do anything with this information that might hurt her.”

This seemed to relax Collins. He was a good lad, Jack thought, a man of integrity and kindness; his reticence to risk Miss Fisher’s trust spoke well of him. “I called Dottie to check in,” he said. “We’d had a date scheduled for the pictures, but then Miss Fisher got that party invitation out of the blue, and I thought, well, it might be nice to surprise Dottie with a long-distance telephone call anyway. But Miss Fisher picked up, and hearing it was me seemed to worry her, and she wanted to know why I was calling and then if it was something to do with you, and I said, no, don’t worry, the Inspector’s fine, nobody’s dead—”

 _The phone lines have been bad. Because of the rain._ “What did she hear,” said Jack hoarsely. It wasn’t a question.

“She came in and told me that I clearly didn’t know what I was talking about,” Collins continued uncomfortably. “Because there you were, absolutely fine. And I said I didn’t know what she meant, and she said she’d heard me say you were dead, and I told her what I said and then she looked horrified and she said _please don’t tell Jack—_ um, the Inspector, I mean you, that’s just what she said, sir—she said _please don’t tell Jack I ran all the way here, it’s humiliating._ ” He shifted from one foot to the other, looking miserable. “I don’t know if it was the right thing to do, telling you, sir,” he said. “I’ve never seen Miss Fisher in such a state.”

“Nor have I,” said Jack, heart pounding.

This wasn’t, strictly speaking, true. When little Jane Ross had been in danger, Phryne had been beside herself with worry. Jack didn’t doubt that she would have run the entire way home on foot if a car hadn’t been immediately handy. But Jack had never once imagined that he might inspire that same complete lack of reason—that fashionable Phryne Fisher would step into the first shoes she could find and run to the train station in her dressing gown. It answered more than a few prevalent, pressing questions that Jack hadn’t realized he’d had.

“I understand your hesitance, Collins,” Jack said quietly. “I admire it. I’ll do my best to make sure Miss Fisher isn’t further upset by my knowledge.”

Collins looked extremely relieved. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “I really do like Miss Fisher, and—and I didn’t mean to upset her, it was the phone lines—”

“I’m well aware,” said Jack, lost in thought. It seemed he would have to check in on Miss Fisher.

* * *

 

Miss Fisher, as it turned out, had indeed contracted a rather intense head cold from her impulsive run through most of Melbourne. When Jack finally dropped by Wardlow, Dot opened the door with a look of thinly disguised exasperation on her face. It was not directed at him. “She tried to escape through the window and help with your murder case,” she said. “ _Why_ she can’t just lie still and get better, I will never understand—”

“May I see her?” Jack asked awkwardly.

Dot went a little pink. “I’m sure it wouldn’t be proper,” she said, slow and considering, “but then I think it really would do her some good to have a visitor.”

Jack took this as a yes. Letting Dot take his hat and coat, he ran a hand awkwardly through his hair (though he hadn’t been out in the rain long, it still felt damp and messy), steeled himself, and headed up the stairs to a bedroom he had never once visited, hoping like hell he wasn’t tracking mud all over Miss Fisher’s floors.

He felt a bit like an intruder, upstairs. His nightcaps with Miss Fisher had largely been restricted to the parlor, with a few brief forays into the kitchen to grab a scone or two. This dimly lit hallway was unfamiliar to him, and yet easily recognizable as Phryne Fisher’s home—the art prints on the wall, the decorative sconces, the tasteful wallpaper. Miss Fisher had excellent taste. Jack stopped outside a door that was very slightly ajar, then knocked.

“Dot, I told you, I’m napping,” came Miss Fisher’s voice, somewhat muffled.

“It’s not—um,” said Jack, cleared his throat, and realized he really should have thought this through a bit more than he had. Things always seemed to fall into place whenever he was in this house; some part of him had stupidly expected this to still be the case.

There was a very long silence. Then Phryne said, “Come in, Jack.”

Jack did.

Miss Fisher was propped up against an unholy amount of pillows, looking rather small and fragile amidst the many comforters tucked expertly around her. Rare were the times that Jack saw Phryne without makeup; none of those times had been because she wanted him to see her that way. It was Phryne at her most vulnerable, and it was almost enough to make Jack want to turn away, give her some privacy.

But then he noticed something. Clutched in Miss Fisher’s arms was his own grey overcoat. “Did you know I was coming?” he asked, for a moment unable to process what Phryne Fisher all but hugging his overcoat might mean.

“No,” said Miss Fisher, and hastily pushed the overcoat away from her. It fell off the side of the bed.

“Can I have my overcoat back?” said Jack.

“No—I mean, yes, of course, yes, it’s your overcoat.” Miss Fisher had gone a bit pink; she looked rather unhappy about it.

Jack hesitated. “Phryne,” he said. “I…spoke to Collins—”

“Damn the boy, I should have known he’d cave,” said Miss Fisher, a half-frightened laugh in her voice. “Yes, I thought you were dead, Jack, what of it?”

“You ran halfway through Melbourne in your dressing gown,” said Jack, not sure where he was going with this, only that his heart was pounding and he wished Miss Fisher would stop _smiling_ like this was some kind of a joke. “Phryne, you could have been hurt, you could be more seriously ill than you already _are—”_

Miss Fisher’s smile was shaking. “Jack, please, I don’t—I can’t talk about this,” she said unsteadily.

“It seems to me as though we might have quite a lot to talk about,” said Jack quietly.

“Well, I don’t—I don’t _want_ to talk about it!” said Miss Fisher, an angry flush rising in her cheeks. “I don’t have to if I don’t want to and I don’t _want_ to, Jack, and I’m _sick_ —”

“Sick, and still trying to make escape attempts?”

“Oh, _why_ can’t anyone in this house keep their mouth shut!” burst out Miss Fisher (Jack decided now wasn’t the time to point out that Collins wasn’t _technically_ a part of Miss Fisher’s staff). “Have you ever considered, Jack, that there are some things I _just don’t want you to know about?_ It isn’t any of your business if I choose to run all the way to Melbourne in my dressing gown—”

“You seem perfectly all right with making my business your business at every point in time,” Jack retorted, stung. “And yet you’re furious if I ask for at least a little more transparency?”

“I think you should leave,” said Miss Fisher, glaring at him over the blankets.

“I think I deserve at least one answer when someone I care about—” Miss Fisher flinched as though she’d been hit; Jack only barely recognized this, “—throws herself in danger because she thinks I’m dead—”

“You’re being incredibly melodramatic, Jack, it’s not as though I threw myself in front of a moving train—”

“Phryne, this is _serious,”_ said Jack, and his voice caught. “You’d have me believe that our partnership is something that matters little to you beyond the crimes we solve and the nightcaps in your parlor, but I _saw_ you in the office—”

“Stop.”

“—and you looked as though you might crumble to bits—”

“ _Stop,_ Jack.”

“—and we need to talk about this, this isn’t something we can just brush over and hide away—”

_“Well, it damn well should be!”_

Jack stopped. Phryne’s eyes were glittering with tears. He’d pushed too far, he realized, taken for granted that Miss Fisher was, at her core, unshakable. He swallowed, hard, then crossed the room, stooping to pick up his overcoat.

“Leave it,” said Phryne in a small voice.

“It’s my _coat,_ Phryne,” said Jack, exhausted.

“I thought you were dead, Jack,” said Phryne. Her voice was shaking; such was the effort she was putting into holding back tears. “I can’t talk to you about this. I don’t know how.”

Jack picked up the coat, then sat down on the edge of the bed, bundling it up and handing it to Phryne. She hugged it to her chest. “All right,” he said quietly. “So we don’t talk about it and we go back to normal. Is that what you want?”

“Yes,” said Phryne. “That’s what I want.”

Jack nodded. “Then I suppose I should—” he began.

Phryne reached out without a word, her fingers stroking his cheek. Jack’s breath caught in his chest. For the first time, he admitted to himself that he _had_ thought about this moment, more than in passing, and wanted it more desperately than he had ever expected. But she looked so shaken by whatever it was she felt for him, and he had never, never wanted that.

She wasn’t ready, Jack realized. But he could wait for quite a while, now that he knew there was something between them to wait for. He let his head fall forward, resting his forehead against Phryne’s. “It’s all right, Miss Fisher,” he said, and the name felt less like a formality and more like an endearment. “I’m all right. I promise.”

Phryne gave him a flicker of a smile and closed her eyes.

There was a knock on the door. Phryne jerked her hand away, flattening herself against the pillows; Jack took the hint and stood up. “Tea, Miss?” Dot called. “Or are you already climbing out the window with the Inspector?”

“Yes, Dot, it’s all an elaborately staged break-out attempt,” Phryne called back, looking extremely amused. Jack smiled a bit; she smiled rather unsteadily back. Still not quite better, then, Jack thought, but she seemed closer to her usual playful self than she had been before. “Do come in, I could use the company.”

“And doesn’t that make me feel appreciated,” Jack quipped as Dot entered with the tea tray. Before he could lose his nerve, he reached out, quickly squeezing Miss Fisher’s hand. “I really should be off,” he said. “Crime never sleeps, and the string of murders—”

“Oh  _don’t_ talk murder with me, Jack, you’ll make me want to _really_ break out of my own home and help you investigate,” sighed Phryne dramatically. That easy smile was back again now that Dot was in the room, which both comforted Jack and made him feel a strange sense of loss. It had been messier, her vulnerability, but it had also been more honest. Less shadows and subterfuge. “If you must be off, be off, and leave me to my extremely boring convalescence.”

“I’ll do my best to drop by again,” said Jack, “make it a bit less boring,” then added hastily, “if I’m welcome, of course,” because their conversation had, as always, left quite a few things ambiguous.

“You’re always welcome, Jack,” said Phryne, her voice softening. Everything did feel so much easier when Dot was in the room—a reminder to both of them that nothing could be too intimate, too revealing, too honest. Jack thought that that probably wasn’t a good sign, but didn’t care: he wanted Phryne to touch him again. He wanted to comfort her, wanted to help her, and now that he knew he _could—_

Dot cleared her throat.

Realizing that he had been staring at Phryne long enough for it to look odd, Jack stood, hoping he wasn’t blushing himself. “Um, you can—you can keep the overcoat,” he added awkwardly, “I have. Many overcoats,” and then hurried out of the room. It then occurred to him that _I have many overcoats_ was not the note he wanted to end such an intimate exchange on, and so he stuck his head back into the bedroom, added, “Goodbye,” and realized that this was _more_ awkward.

Phryne was smiling, though. That made things relatively all right. “Till next time, Inspector,” she said, and snuggled back into the pillows.

* * *

 

The victim had been in his late sixties, well-dressed, no identification. He’d been placed strategically in the middle of the street, in front of a car with a bloody fender, but according to the coroner, the cause of death was poisoning. There were no visible injuries under his bloody clothing, which raised quite a few questions about whose blood had been on his jacket—

“—can I see that, Jack?” chirped Phryne, peering over his shoulder.

Jack jumped, flinging the coroner’s report into the air and sending papers flying everywhere. “Miss Fisher, have you _heard_ of knocking?” he demanded.

“Well, Dot’s finally released me from house arrest—”

“Is that what they’re calling bed rest these days?”

“—and I checked in with Collins to see if you needed my help, and he said he thought you might,” Phryne finished.

“I didn’t say that, sir!” Collins yelped from the front office.

“You two do seem to have a history of mangled messages,” said Jack, mouth twitching.

Phryne’s easy smile froze on her face. There was a strange, strained silence, and then she said, much too loudly, “So about that murder?”

“Are we just going to avoid the subject entirely, then?” said Jack. “It seems a bit difficult to—”

“It says here that the victim was poisoned,” said Phryne, still in an aggressively loud tone of voice. Was she _blushing?_ “Can you tell me a bit more about that?”

“Well, it’s cyanide,” said Jack, bemused. “Fairly straightforward. Phryne, am I not at least allowed to mention—”

 _“No,_ ” said Phryne.

Deciding not to press the issue further, Jack stooped to pick up the coroner’s report at the same time that Phryne did. As they reached for the paper, their fingers brushed.

And Jack truly didn’t know what possessed him. It was just that Phryne had looked so _small_ amidst all those pillows, sans red lipstick, close to tears. He reached out for her hand, and he took it over the coroner’s report, holding it quietly and tightly. He couldn’t remember how to be frightened of her snatching her hand away; all he could think was _I cannot bear that look on her face._

Immediately, Phryne dropped the corner of the coroner’s report she was holding, ignoring it in favor of gripping Jack’s hand as tightly as she possibly could. She didn’t say anything, but the expression on her face was terrifyingly open, terrifyingly vulnerable. Jack felt as though he had been entrusted with something well beyond his ability to care for. “Miss Fisher,” he whispered, and couldn’t think of a way to end the sentence.

“Sir?” called Collins from the front office.

Phryne jumped away from Jack in a way that reminded him a bit of a skittish baby animal. “Yes, Collins?” he called back, standing up with some frustration; as inappropriate as the time and place was, he’d felt like they were _getting_ somewhere.

“I should go, I should—” Phryne was babbling, already drawing back.

“No,” said Jack, “stay,” and caught the sleeve of her coat just as Collins stepped into the room. “What is it, Collins?”

Collins directed a bewildered look to Jack’s hand on Phryne’s sleeve, seemed to decide (correctly) that any line of questioning about said hand wouldn’t end well for him, and said awkwardly, “Um, there’s—there’s a witness to the poisoning who just turned up looking for the deceased.”

 _“Splendid,_ ” said Phryne very loudly, directing a hugely plastic smile in Jack’s direction. “Isn’t it lovely when the solutions just turn up on your doorstep?”

“Miss Fisher,” Jack persisted, well aware that he was fighting a losing battle, “we were in the middle of a discussion—”

“No we weren’t, we were making small talk,” Phryne chirped, tugging her sleeve free of his hand and sailing past him. “Besides which, Jack, you’ve always impressed upon me the incredible importance of prioritizing work before one’s personal life. You’re the witness?” she added to whoever was waiting outside Jack’s office.

Jack leaned back against the desk, a mixture of exasperated and distraught. It wasn’t  _right,_ seeing Phryne this affected and not being able to do a single damn thing about it. All he wanted to do was be there for her, in any capacity she felt ready for; it ached, knowing that she might not be ready for anything at all.

* * *

 

The solution, as it happened, had not turned up on their doorstep. The witness ended up being the murderer, the person implicated by the witness ended up being the perpetrator of a different crime entirely, and now Jack was going to have to file a ridiculous amount of paperwork caused by this rigmarole of a case. Generally, the solving of a complex puzzle like this one left him buzzing with a quiet, pleased energy, but with Phryne’s smile free of its usual sparkle, all he could really think about was the people who had gotten hurt by this ridiculous mess. He hadn’t realized how much Miss Fisher’s determined joy had helped when it came to the tougher cases.

“Nightcap?” he found himself asking as they left the station.

Phryne let out a soft, quiet laugh. “You really are worried about me, aren’t you?” she said lightly.

“What makes you think that?”

“Usually you wander into my home as though you’ve lost your way to your own,” said Phryne wryly, gaze pointed purposefully ahead. “I always have to pretend that I wasn’t waiting up for you.”

This took Jack by surprise. “You’ve been waiting up for me?”

Phryne did look at him, at that. “You didn’t know?” she said, and _there_ was that look in her eyes again. Vulnerable, and somewhat frightened by it.

Jack cleared his throat, feeling a bit awkward. He felt as though she might take any excuse to get out of this conversation if it became too honest. Carefully, he said, “I suppose I assumed you had better things to do than to wait around for me.”

“A sensible assumption to make,” said Phryne. She bit her lip, exhaled, and then— _oh._ Her hand, small and sure, slipped into his, entwining their fingers. She didn’t once look away from him.

All rational thought was knocked out of Jack’s head.

“I think I am, though,” said Phryne, and gave him a nervous, self-deprecating smile. “Waiting around for you. Quite unusual, really, considering my tendency for passionate yet largely loveless romantic connections.”

Jack’s heart was pounding. He couldn’t find a single appropriate response to that.

“Jack, when I thought you were dead, I…” Phryne trailed off, her smile trembling. “I was without reason,” she said. “I couldn’t think beyond the fact that if I went to the station, things would all make sense again.” She swallowed, hard. “We make sense,” she said. “What we do together—that makes sense to me. It isn’t at all traditional, and that bothers me, because you have always struck me as the sort of man who values tradition—”

“Well, I spent the better half of last year falling madly in love with a flighty socialite who regularly breaks and enters, so I’d say you should throw that theory out the window,” said Jack before he could stop himself.

He was rather expecting Phryne to draw back, but she exhaled, almost a laugh. “I suppose that’s fair,” she said, eyes shining.

“You don’t look at all surprised,” said Jack, a little startled.

“Oh, men fall in love with me all the time,” said Phryne, waving a hand. The remark didn’t have time enough to sting, though, because then she said, “I’m saving my energy for being _utterly_ shocked that I fell in love right back.”

Jack stared at her, mouth half-open. Weakly, he said, “Is this why—”

“Why I’ve been an utter mess?” Phryne gave him a small, tired grin. “Well, it’s largely the cause. It certainly doesn’t help to realize you’re in love the exact second you think the man you love is dead.” Her smile faded. “Those horrible hours when I thought you were dead, all I knew was I wanted you _here,_ with _me,_ and that I would never have the chance to _tell_ you—” She swallowed, tugging her hand away from Jack’s to wipe roughly at her eyes.

Jack rummaged in his pocket and fished out a handkerchief, dabbing at her face.

“Don’t  _patronize_ me,” said Phryne a bit waspishly.

“I love you too, Phryne,” said Jack dryly.

And somehow, that was what did it. One moment, Jack was lowering the handkerchief to pocket it again, and the next, his arms were full of Miss Fisher, both of them kissing clumsily and ungracefully in their effort to be as close to each other as possible. Part of this might have been because Phryne was crying. Part of this was certainly because they had been waiting a good year and a half for this moment, which was a _terribly_ long time when one courted death on a daily basis.

Phryne was the one to pull back, burying her face in Jack’s shoulder. She was shaking. “Phryne,” Jack whispered, kissing her hair, trying to reassure her through touch alone. “Phryne—”

“Jack, my heart is a _terrible_ judge of character,” said Phryne shakily, “and I did _not_ want to fall in love again.”

Not for the first time, Jack rather wished he’d been the one to drive the knife into Rene Dubois. “We’ll muddle through,” he promised.

“You’re a _detective inspector,”_ Phryne persisted. “Your reputation—”

“That didn’t seem to bother you when you were turning up to solve all my cases,” Jack reminded her.

“And what happens if I never marry you?”

“I didn’t think for a moment that marriage was on the table,” said Jack gently. “I don’t see the point in pressing the issue if it’s something that’ll make you miserable.”

Phryne looked up at him with a wobbly smile. “You really are a noble man, Jack Robinson,” she said.

“It’s hardly _nobility_ to want you to be _happy,”_ Jack objected gently, and punctuated the statement with a slightly less desperate kiss. It was all but dizzying, kissing her this casually. It wasn’t something he’d ever expected to have with her. “I love you,” he said again, very softly. “I hope it doesn’t frighten you off.”

“Not much frightens _me_ off,” said Phryne, tossing her hair and giving him a genuine grin.

“I’m well aware,” said Jack. Then, “Some things should, though.”

“We can have this discussion at a later date,” said Phryne, her grin widening as she looped her arms around his neck. “For now, though, I rather think I am going to busy myself with being _ridiculously_ happy. That or I’ll have a good cry. It’s a bit up in the air at this juncture.”

“I’ll take you home,” said Jack.

“ _I’ll_ take _you_ home,” said Phryne, her grip tightening around him. “I still have to return your overcoat.”

“You don’t still want it?” Jack teased gently.

“Why should I?” Phryne tilted her head back, smiling up at him. Her eyes flitted blatantly to his mouth. “I’m certainly not one to settle for anything less than the real thing.”

Jack grinned, and kissed her again, this one slower and more languid than the others. There was no undercurrent of urgency in this kiss, nor was it tinged with a desire to comfort: this, Jack thought, was kissing Phryne solely because he wanted to kiss Phryne, and it was an experience unlike any other. “I love you very much, Phryne Fisher,” he whispered, pulling back just enough for his lips to still brush hers when he spoke.

He felt Phryne’s hands cupping his face. “As I love you, Jack Robinson,” she whispered back, and stood on tiptoe to kiss him again.

* * *

 

Jack awoke at the quiet _creak_ of the bedroom door opening. He blinked, winced at the sunlight, realized his arm was still thrown over Phryne’s waist, and felt a rush of joy that was all but dizzying in its intensity.

“Hmm!” said Dot, giving them both an amused look, and set the breakfast tray down in front of the bed before quietly exiting the room.

“She’ll never let us hear the end of this one,” said Phryne, and let out a happy sigh when Jack kissed her shoulder in response.


End file.
